by P D Ceanneir
‘We did it, we did it!’ chuckled Mad-gellan. Certainly, victory in the previous year’s battle against Mad-borath meant that Mad-gellan’s succession was secure. The big warrior grinned with joyous emotion. The Wildlands also benefited from the ascension of Mad-gellan, he wasted no time in implementing various reforms to improve life in these hostile lands.
‘Aye, we have, my friend, that we have,’ Jericho grinned. ‘If only the De Proteous was here to see all of this.’
‘Ha! True. I could use his advice on many things, but I have Lord Kalyn as advisor, and a damn fine job he is doing of it too. I’m thinking of making him Chancellor of Tyrandur.’
‘Kalyn!’
‘Yes, I think you have met?’ aske Mad-gellan.
Jericho nodded and glanced at his officers. One of them was Tamarind De Winn who looked over at the group of tribesmen and then back at Jericho, finally giving him a shrug.
‘Yes, he was very…cooperative during the surrender of Storing Gully Fort,’ said Jericho hesitantly.
‘Good then, come and meet the others.’
Jericho softly gripped his friends arm and whispered in his ear, ‘do you trust this, Kalyn?’
Mad-gellan frowned, ‘what was it young Havoc always said about keeping your enemies close?’
Jericho nodded in understanding.
‘If I’m to build a new realm,’ explained Mad-gellan, ‘I’m going to need all of my friends and enemies to cow down and build it for me.’
Jericho smiled; he stepped back from the new Overlord and bowed, ‘I think you will do just fine, my friend.’
Shadowfall brushed against the immense heights of the Crystal Cave and caused the lava wells in the volcanoes lower levels to bubble higher and burst through old lava vents. The ground shook, if only for a few minutes, and then calmed. Inside one of the old caves, high up on the cavern wall of gems and crystal formations, an ancient beast stirred in her sleep. The oldest of her kind grunted as she raised her large head. She sniffed the air and grinned to show long rows of sharp pointed teeth.
‘It has begun,’ said Ciriana and she laid her head back down to sleep.
Shadowfall stretched. It pushed out as far as it could over the Aln Plain. The Earth Daemon gibbered and chuckled in insane joy. This was but a fragment of the power he possessed and it stretched around the world to cause mayhem. He thrilled in the glee of destruction, he roared in triumph at the knowledge he had gathered from the Earth Shepherds, for at one time he was a mindless entity that moved where instinct took him. Not now. Now he was a creature of fear, a god of purpose and power. Now he could fulfil his destiny as the Great Destroyer. The Five Who Speak will bow down to him and provide the flesh his soul craved…the Dark Tanis shall reign supreme in the…heavens…he…
Shadowfall stopped. The Earth Daemon raged and flailed against the walls of his prison. The effect of his influence had reached it’s limit. He was in touching distance of Aln-Tiss…in sight of the standing stones on Carras Isle where the My’thos finally snared him. All he wanted to do was to rip it from the surface of the planet…destroy…annihilate….if he could just push… one push…one last push…
However, the subduing Skrol on board the Cybeleion took effect and he raged and flailed in his despair as Shadowfall receded from the plain.
The Festival of Belltainn 12th of Aprilia 3039 YOA
Shanks settled into his seat and barely drank the wine offered to him by the busty barmaid in the light green silk dress. Even at his age, he could still appreciate the female form and what he saw through the thin material of the dress was very pleasing indeed.
He smiled at the festivities and the ructious joy around him. The Festival of Belltainn, or New Spring, was always one of his favourite times of the year. The whole city would throw off their inhibitions, dress in the most revealing garments and hide behind animal masks.
The bar inside the Hoydart Wreck, a popular tavern inside the Merchant District of Port-Town in Aln-Tiss, was an old haunt of the young Baron Telmar and his close friend, Prince Vanduke, the father of the current Rogun king, during their days in the Rawn Academy. Shanks recalled several memories of this place, most of them pleasant. He remembered his romance with one of the serving girls, but could not remember her name, or even her face. It was at times like these he wished his damaged mind healed anew; then again, it seemed prudent to hide his darker memories and so his past would always remain locked away from him.
Revellers in the bar drank and laughed. Most were so drunk that they had discarded their masks and even their inhibitions. Several of the men were groping the servers and by the looks on the young women’s faces, they were enjoying it.
Shanks finally took a sip of the wine. It was good, but he had long since lost any taste for it. The urge to leave the confines of the palace had been his decision, though he had asked the king for permission to go into town and King Vanduke had shrugged and said yes.
‘Are you not coming to the Belltainn Ball?’ he had asked him.
Shanks shook his head, ‘I would rather not, sire.’ If he was honest with himself, keeping a low profile amongst the high-ranking nobles of the land was possibly prudent. He was not sure that someone would recognise him even though the chances of that were very slim. Besides, the festival and the Ball gave the king an opportunity to show his gratitude towards the nobles of the Temperance League and Shanks wished to remain neutral in politics.
No, he was safer here. No one knew who he was and no one cared. The people of the citadel simply wanted to celebrate the coming of spring and not feel threatened by unconfirmed stories of Vallkyte warmongering.
Shanks sighed, to his left a group of four couples in green tabards and multi-coloured silk leggings roared in laughter as one of their number spilt his beer over the table. The group sang a very lewd song about the man’s ineptitude and associated this with his lack of sexual prowess. Shanks chuckled as he recognised the song, but could not ever remember singing it himself.
More revellers walked in, laughing in their drunkenness. They wore the traditional green clothing and garlands of mistletoe entwined with a colourful spring flower called Roehip. The bar was becoming very full, most people had to stand, as all of the tables filled and the babble of chatter became deafening. Shanks grinned through his beard and made a note to get out more often.
Joy was good. Happiness was a positive emotion that did not bring with it the unwanted rise of his curse, remaining positive was the key. True, the Pyromantic Curse he still suffered from had significantly reduced over time due to his instinctive control of his emotions, and the added aid of Lord Ness’s meditation techniques, which had worked so well on the young De Proteous, helped a great deal.
Two more revellers walked into the bar; male, tall and rugged. One wore a fox mask while the other was obviously a stag, the bare twigs sprouting out of the top of the mask were supposed to be antlers. It was traditional for people to make their own masks, although shops sold finely crafted ones for a reasonable price, yet this fellow’s mask looked cobbled together in a rush. The other thing that Shanks noted was that these men wore their everyday attire as if the effort to make some form of costume for the festival was not worth the bother. They did have lime green silk strips around their elbows and Spring Bells tied around their knees. The whole effect to blend with the crowd was poor.
The other thing Shanks noticed was the way these men moved. They had the bearing of soldiers, neither of them seemed drunk and they were incredibly wary as they took standing space by the far wall next to the taproom.
Shanks did not know if it was his own tuition or some fragment of his Rawn training that piqued his suspicions, but he could not take his eyes off these two men.
Joy left him and anxiety flipped his stomach. He cursed under his breath and forced himself to remain calm.
The noise in the bar suddenly dulled to a drone, things seemed to move slower around him and he wondered if someone had drugged his wine. There was a distinct feeling of oppres
sion weighing heavily in the air and he recognised it immediately.
There was a Pyromancer in the room!
His eyes frantically looked around as people laughed and chatted or cavorted in the dark booths next to him. None of them felt the sensation of a presence like the one he did, none of them understood the power of a Pyromancer and it was obvious none of them, but Shanks, could see the Blacksword sitting in a dark corner by the main door.
Shanks froze and went rigid as he stared at the Blacksword. The shadows moved and flowed around the being, blocking out any movement behind him. The candle flames on all of the tables dulled, nobody noticed this, but Shanks did. A slight breeze shifted around the room, moving the decorative plant bunting that hung in drooping loops from one end of the bar to another.
The Blacksword stared at Shanks from the dark confines of his hood.
Shanks nodded once and felt externally foolish for doing so, thankfully the Blacksword nodded back.
Then the cloaked being lifted up his hand. One of his long thin white fingers pointed, pointed directly towards the two men that had raised suspicion in Shanks. He looked over and saw a third man talking to the other two. He was dressed much the same as his companions, wore no mask or festival finery. The two men stood straight when the third spoke to them. An officer, perhaps?
All three men turned and left the bar, heading out of the back entrance towards the stables. Shanks frowned and looked back towards the Blacksword.
He was gone. The room was normal again.
Shanks got up quickly and threw two silver Merks onto the table before following the three men out of the door. He caught a glimpse of them as they entered the stable door.
He wondered what he was doing. Three trained soldiers probably armed and up to no good against an old man with a staff made of gnarled white elm and a broken mind of fragmented memories was not going to be a fair contest.
Yet, in his youth as the Baron Telmar, he had defied odds far greater than this. The old optimism was still there. Somewhere.
Shanks entered the warm stable and the smell of horse grew stronger. Most of the stalls were full and the horses nickered as he passed. Due to the tavern catering for all newcomers in their inn, it also sat on the main thoroughfare through town for travellers using the stagecoach, so for a small fee, the taverns stable lads looked after the horses and made a tidy profit as well.
Muffled voices up ahead drew Shanks into the centre isle of the stable, which was set out in a cross formation. As he peeked around the corner, the voiced grew louder.
‘…in place at the palace?’ said the one without the mask.
‘Yes, sir. The weapons have been smuggled past the Watch.’
‘He knows what to do?’
‘He’s the best we have, sir. Another half an hour and we shall know.’
Shanks dared to get a better look. The three men were standing over two youngsters bound, gagged and shaking with fear. Only one of them wore a blue tabard with silver trim. On them was the symbol of a rearing unicorn wrapped up in a silver chain, the livery of the High Steward of Aln-Tiss. These boys were servants who should be at the palace where the ball was taking place.
The Ball! Weapons smuggled past the Watch?
Everything fell into place in Shanks’s mind. He straightened and let out a deep breath. He walked out from his hiding place and stepped into the lantern light where the stewards knelt on the wooden floor, without formulating any plan whatsoever.
‘Has anyone seen my horse? It’s an old nag with a terrible flatulence problem…’ he said as he leant on his staff feigning unsteady old age. The two mask wearers instantly drew boot knives, but the third man stepped forwards holding up his hands.
‘There is nothing here for you, old man. Be on your way or feel a knife in your ribs!’
‘I think not, old chap.’ Shanks rammed the end of his staff into the fellow’s groin and then slammed the other end down onto his exposed nape as he crouched forward in pain. When he crashed to the floor unconscious, Shanks leapt over him and jabbed at the knife hand of fox-mask. The soldier was quick and backed away, but Shanks instinctively knew he would back off, so he twisted around to use the base of his staff to knock away stag-mask’s lunge and then jam the shaft into his exposed stomach. Stag-mask grunted and doubled up in pain. Shanks spun on his heel, whipping the elm around his body and slamming the other end into his opponent’s face to rip off the mask in a spray of blood, there was an audible crack as his jaw shattered.
Fox-mask attacked. Shanks barely had time to use the shaft of his staff to block the knife lunge. He kicked out quickly and caught the man’s elbow, numbing it enough to weaken his grip and then slapped the knife out of his hand. This left him open for a counter-attack, fox-mask punched Shanks hard in the solar plexus, and he fell back against one of the stable posts. The horse in its stall neighed loudly and kicked at the walls. Shanks ducked a fist but caught one in his side, which made him groan loudly. He raised his staff defensively and his opponent used some martial art move with his elbow to break it in half and then kicked Shanks in the chest, which sent him skidding along the isle. Fox-mask leapt on top of him and Shanks quickly brought one of the broken ends of his staff around, plunging the broken point into the man’s throat, he felt the wood scrape along the spinal column before it burst out of the back of his head about an inch.
With a mighty heave, Shanks pushed the dead soldier off him and then went to untie the bonds of the stewards. He realised he was breathing heavily, his heart thumped loudly in his ears and the beginnings of a Pyromantic surge was stirring, though not to any dangerous level. He willed himself to remain calm.
Once the gag was off the first boy, he began to babble. Shanks told him firmly to slow down.
‘They took us from the palace in sacks!’ he said, ‘knocked us out with cudgels.’
‘Someone took my tabard,’ said the other, ‘saw his face,’ he gestured at the three men on the ground, ‘it was not one of them.’
‘Alright, alright, keep calm,’ soothed Shanks, ‘do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the first boy, ‘you are Master Shanks, a friend of the king’s.’
Shanks nodded. ‘Good! First, you tie up the two men still alive and then go and get the Watch.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Shanks turned towards the second boy, ‘do you think you could recognise the fourth man again?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good lad, put on your friends tabard and then pick a horse. We’re going to stop him.’
Getting into the palace was far harder than getting out. The Watch and palace guards stopped them at the entrance of the Old-port gatehouse. Luckily, several of the guards recognised Shanks and most knew the steward, whose name was Jorge. They wasted a few minutes in explanation before they went on their way, the guards now alerted to the fact that there was an assassin somewhere in the palace grounds.
Shanks and Jorge had to abandon their unsaddled mounts on the library lawn and sprint into the library cloister. Jorge, who knew the palace buildings far better than Shanks did, took him to a small door under a set of stairs in one of the annex buildings. It led under the parliament halls and the royal quarters before reaching stairs that led up to the kitchens.
They exited inside a meat cellar, which led to the kitchen and then out into one of the reception halls just outside the main ballroom. Nobles in rich finery, wearing outlandish spring colours and exquisite animal masks, filled the room. The women wore long skirted ball gowns, deep plunging necklines and a crown of flowers, while the men wore tight-fitting leggings and studded tunics.
The High Steward’s servants in their blue and silver livery, walked amongst the nobles with trays of food of crystal glasses of wine. Every one of them wore a silver mask.
‘Do you see him?’ snapped Shanks.
Jorge was franticly looking in all directions. He shook his head and jumped when Shanks said, ‘shit!’
The older man grabbed the
boy’s arm, ‘let’s mingle.’
They stomped through the throng of people issuing apologies and roughly asking them to move out of the way. Shanks clutched the hilt of one of the soldier’s daggers hidden up his sleeve. He hoped no one would feel it if he bumped into them accidentally and start shouting “Assassin”. That would cause a panic and they may lose the real killer.
‘There!’ said Jorge.
‘Where?’ Shanks looked to were Jorge was pointing. Off in the distance they could see several servants passing each other. It was difficult to make any out as the crowd closed around them.
Jorge pushed through people and Shanks followed behind. They reached the end of the room and the boy scanned the stewards as they walked by.
‘Ah…no, sir, I think I have lost…wait…there!’ he pointed to the only servant without a tray. He was tall and looked shiftily around him as he walked into the Ballroom.
Without waiting for Jorge, Shanks ran towards the Ballroom entrance.
King Vanduke nodded as some noble he barely recognised under the mask greeted him with a bow or a curtsy. Both he and Queen Molna wore dragon masks of black to signify the Cromme Coat of Arms, which depicted the twin dragons Sin and Dex. Molna, at his side, held his arm. She looked stunning in a green dress crusted in emeralds and sequins. Vanduke wore a simple white tabard, green cape and tall green riding boots with small silver bells on the toes.
‘I love Belltainn,’ he said as he nodded towards another noble that curtsied as she walked by them. The curtsey made it obvious to everyone that her dress was barely holding in her cleavage.
‘I wonder why,’ giggled Molna as she watched the woman skip by them and shook her husband’s arm when his eyes followed her.
He laughed. ‘It is the time of new life, my dear. Did you know that the population of the city always increases in the New Year due to the…erm…drunken celebrations of Belltainn?’
